Lines To Cross
by Anti-Kryptonite
Summary: Obstacles have always been in his path, but these are the last - the final lines he must cross to reach his son and return to the woman he loves. But the last obstacles are always the hardest to overcome. (Spoilers for 2x13)


A/N: I know there's been a lot of dismay over the current Rumbelle story, but I've been loving the last episodes (because the harder they/we fight for their love, the more rewarding their reunion will be), especially 'Tiny.' It was full of great character moments and lines, as well as some very foreboding plot developments, but best of all were the Rumplestiltskin/Mr. Gold parts. They were so good, in fact, that I had to write down what he might have been thinking and feeling during those moments because there was just SO MUCH there. I hope you all enjoy this little look at what might have been going through his mind - and I'd love it if you let me know what you think of it!

Disclaimer: 'Tiny' was written by Christine Boylan & Kalinda Vasquez and does not belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Lines To Cross

* * *

The line stretched out across his path, a haunting demarcation between the two segments of his life. There was no orange paint, no dark moonlight, nothing more than the sign taunting him with what he had for so long been unable to accomplish—too little and too much all at once.

Fear swallowed him whole. Remembered fear. Residual fear. Useless fear.

He remembered.

Belle standing at his side. Looking at him as if it would be a crime were he to be lost. So happy and smiling. Reaching out—so close, _too_ close—grabbing his hand. And he'd let her. Let her because he was exultant and triumphant. Relieved and _happy_. Because she loved him. Because she believed in him. Because she was there.

Her hands cradling his as if he were precious. Her voice, weaving around him like a spell. The reverent smile that twisted his own lips—not in scorn or derision or provocation. Just happiness. Happy and disbelieving and wonderstruck.

The bullet. The sound like thunder. The feel of her stumbling forward, weight and warmth and worry condensed into solid form in his arms. He'd tried to catch her, to hold on, just like he'd done before, with the smell of dust and the feel of unfamiliar sunshine and the sensation of beauty and heat cradled next to his heart. She'd looked up at him as if she'd never seen him before then, too. But so different, that time and this. That time, she'd been curious and struck and wondering. This time, she was horrified, scared, confused. A stranger looking at another stranger.

His own voice, cracked and bleeding on the edges. His hands on her because he'd thought she might fade away if he stopped touching her. Not knowing, not realizing, not comprehending that it was already too late. But then, out of the corner of his eye, that spark, that open wound, of orange. On the wrong side. Her whole body, where he'd laid it so carefully—on the wrong side.

Belle was gone. Belle was gone, and she was still in Storybrooke, and he was running again. But not running away. Running _toward_ something.

_The one person in this universe who might still love you_.

The line cut across the world like a chasm. Around his throat, he'd hung the bridge to cross that chasm. The price of reaching into another world—and why hadn't he remembered this earlier, before he'd taken her to the very edge?—was always the one he loved.

Would Belle think it worth it, to trade her life for his son's? Or would she hate him as her counterpart—wiped clean, pure of his taint, cleansed of her love for him—already did?

When he crossed the line, when the magic closed around him, tried to hold on, stretched out, strained, and then ripped…he smiled. Because he'd won.

Centuries of working toward this goal.

Hundreds of thousands of deals.

Millions of people who lived and breathed and loved and hated and died while he still continued forward.

One beautiful young woman with a strength greater than any other and compassion that reached even further—all her memories and hopes and dreams and desires and fears and moments.

All of it, sacrificed for this moment. This accomplishment. This journey.

He'd won. Of course he had. He wouldn't allow it any other way, wouldn't let all that had been given up for this be for nothing.

"My name is Rumplestiltskin," he said aloud, because he could. Because it was true. Because he remembered. Because this was all he had left to him. "And we're going to find my son."

* * *

The line wove both in front of and behind him like some sort of dull, cumbersome beast, composed of hundreds of people. Unnamed people. People who had never heard of him, never went to sleep to the sound of whispered warnings and legends of the Dark One. People who owed him nothing, who cared little for the power they would think nothing more than the raving delusions of a madman should he tell them of it.

So many people. All of them oblivious to him. They neither feared him nor cared for him. To them, he was nothing more than another faceless mass in the line they all needed to get through to get to where they were going. Destinations mundane and unimportant with so little sacrificed to achieve it.

Inside him, there was nothing. No crackle of power. No thrill of lightning. No haze of violet force. No magic. There was only him. Rumplestiltskin. Mr. Gold. A man with a limp standing in a line of other anonymous people. A small man with no physical power, no political standing, nothing of any note.

It had been centuries since he'd been someone who could be ignored. Centuries since he'd been at the mercy of others.

He hated it. It took every bit of self-control he possessed to stand there and do nothing, say nothing. To not run.

Another person moved through the metal detectors. One more step forward. Questions buzzing in his ears like flies, tiny insects straining his concentration. Irritation bubbled up in him, a geyser that had been capped so long and yet now oozed its way free, seeping into the open, boiling with putrid impatience.

Another person, another step, another question brushed aside. He was alone in a nameless, faceless crowd, restored to dangerous, vulnerable anonymity. His hand tightened around his cane, a vain reminder that he was not completely weaponless, but he did not tear his eyes from the metal detectors—gateway to yet another means of transportation to finding his son.

He remembered.

Bae standing in front of him. Looking at him as if he did not recognize him. Then softening and reaching out to him. Stepping into his arms. Telling him he'd been so worried. Leading Rumplestiltskin into their small house. Asking him about his powers and the Dark One and what exactly had happened.

His solid, steadfast presence. Always there for him. Never leaving him. The house grew a bit, got a bit warmer, filled up with more accessories. Their clothes were drier and sturdier and more colorful. Rumplestiltskin began to deal with more unsavory people, and still Bae had been there.

He'd spoken—cajoled, begged, threatened, dealt—all with the sole purpose of restoring Rumplestiltskin to the man he'd once been. He'd been so full of faith and love, so convinced of the rightness of his path. He'd forgotten—or maybe he'd never realized—that Rumplestiltskin hated the man he had been. The coward. The poor and downtrod and scared spinner, beaten and whipped. Broken. Rumplestiltskin would have given up anything for the assurance he'd never be that man again.

But Bae had believed in him. He'd trusted him. And so he'd accepted a gift from a fairy and pulled his father into the woods, and even at the end, he'd called out for him.

_Papa!_

And Rumplestiltskin had given up everything to keep his power.

"Scarf and cane go in the basket," the man said, and Rumplestiltskin could only stare at him, because it was ridiculous. It was incomprehensible. It was degrading.

No power. No deals. No fear of him. And he was helpless. Again. As if none of the intervening centuries—the deals and the black arts and the sins and the brief, bright moment of hope—had happened. All wiped away and undone and _useless_.

"I can't," he told Emma, but she promised him. She was the savior. Her name had woken him. Her presence had given him hope when he was running out. She'd beaten Cora to get back to Storybrooke. And she was the only one in this entire world—on this _wrong_ side of the line—that owed him anything.

His hands shook as he pulled off his shawl and coat. His legs locked up on him when he set down Bae's shawl, the only remaining piece of the world he'd come from. He took a step forward, another one, another, because Bae and Belle had paid the price for his desires already and now maybe it was time for him to pay with his own life, his own memories. His own soul.

There'd been too much noise and movement and color. Now there was none.

_Bae_, he chanted to himself. _Belle. Bae. Belle. Bae. Belle._

They were the names that mattered. The two people that he _needed_ to exist. Belle had already forgotten, and any memories they shared…they were only in his mind, his heart, now. She'd forgotten them, as if they'd never been, and if he forgot too…well, then there'd be nothing. Their story might as well have never even happened. No one else would take the time to remind him that he'd loved the most brilliant woman in a dozen, a _hundred_, worlds, and that she'd loved him back. No one else even believed it—why would they try to fix what they'd probably see as a blessing for Belle?

He was the only one. It was _their_ story, but right now it was only _his_ and he _needed_ it. He couldn't forget it. Couldn't forget her. She deserved to be remembered. To be loved.

_Bae. Belle. Bae. Belle. Bae. Belle._

And no one knew his son. No one cared about his son. He was all his son had, and his son thought he'd abandoned him. Let him go as if he weren't worth holding onto. If he forgot Bae, then he truly would have abandoned him. All the deals and spells and curses and sins…they wouldn't matter. They would have all been for nothing. He would be a monster—for nothing.

He stumbled through, or he thought he did, anyway. He wasn't quite sure. There was a blur of motion and color and maybe noise surrounding him, circling him in every direction, but he didn't care. He could only look forward, one step farther along the path to his son, and keep moving.

_Bae. Belle. Bae. Belle._

Only vaguely was he aware that Emma had wrapped his shawl back around his neck, that she was looking at him. Worried. Concerned. Afraid.

_That_, he remembered.

He nodded his head and tightened his hand around his cane—solid and real and concrete. His name was Rumplestiltskin and he was looking for his son, because that was what he did. It was what he'd been doing for more time than he wanted to think about. It was important and meaningful, and an act of penance, too, for how he had let Bae go.

But he couldn't move for a long moment. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't stop the mantra ringing in his head like gongs to signal the passing of what could have been, what _had_ been, what he would do anything to ensure was again.

_Bae. Belle. Bae. Belle._

Because what if he'd forgotten something? What if he'd lost more than he thought? Would he even know? Would the missing moments show like a scar in his mind? Or would they simply be gone forever, no sign left to mark their passing?

_Bae. Belle. Bae. Belle._

"My name is Rumplestiltskin," he whispered to himself, alone in a crowd. Unnoticed. Ignored. Vulnerable. "And I'm going to find my son."

* * *

The line he paced out, back and forth over the thin gray carpet, never wavered or faltered, each stride measured and quick and restless. If he could only focus hard enough on keeping each footfall the exact same as the one before, if he could precisely measure the distance between each, then maybe he could keep from flying into a hundred different pieces. Like a certain, _damaged_ cup.

There were more questions circling him, but this time they were less like annoying flies and more like the incessant, infuriating drip-drip-drip of water on the cheek of a man tied down and helpless. Torture. Never-ending, constant, nagging torture, and he snapped, frayed and violent and oh so very scared, at the buzzing-insect questions swirling about him.

This wasn't him. He was careful and controlled, restrained, calculating. He didn't snap and snarl like some kind of whipped animal. He was better than this. _More_ than this. Or he used to be anyway. Before lines and bullets and smashed cups. Before, when he had only remembered that Bae called out for him. When he'd ignored the fact that next, afterward, Bae had called him a coward and looked at him with eyes so furious and betrayed. When he'd been trying so very, _very_ hard to forget the way Belle had begged him to _Go away!_

_Father_, the savior had named him. But he wasn't a good one. He wasn't a good anything, not unless you could call a villain good, because he certainly made a _good_ one of those.

His son hated him.

His love didn't know him.

He remembered.

Bae staring in horror at the blood on his father's boots. Exclaiming over the crushed snail in the street. Eyes wide and horrified, but never so condemning as when they flashed with green sparks and dwindled away into nothing.

Belle looking at him so curiously, so warily. Her hands shaking when he placed the teacup in them, his fingers brushing against hers. The tears in her eyes, the tremor in her frame, the way she huddled in on herself, wrapping her arms around her middle, protecting herself against _him_.

Terrible memories, horrible memories, memories that burned and seared their way through him, but at least they were still there. At least he hadn't lost them in those brief moments when he'd been separated from Bae's shawl.

He locked himself away, separated himself somewhere quiet and private. A bathroom—not the most dignified of sanctums, but he was beyond caring. He needed to regain control, needed to reign himself in. He'd been waiting so long—these last hours surely couldn't be any worse than those decades after he'd been so close to, been within touching distance of, a bean.

But they were. Because in those decades after the bean, after the crushed heart and the traitorous pirate—and that was twice he'd let the pirate live and twice he'd paid with the ones he loved—he'd remembered Bae's smile. Bae's touch. Bae's eyes. Bae's body in his arms when he was younger. Bae calling him _papa_.

Now, he remembered darker moments, the flinches away from him and the disbelieving, judging looks. Now he remembered that he was a monster and Bae was good and noble, a hero no matter his birth or lineage or circumstance.

Bae was a hero. Belle was a good person. And he? He was a monster.

He was hammering away at something metal and hard and cold, bludgeoning it, longing for the sound of crashing glass and shattering wood, but there was nothing but hollow echoes, even this small thing so far out of his control. The pain in his hand hardly registered at all—he wouldn't even have noticed it except that from the corner of his eye, he caught the spark of color, the brightness of garish hue, and he flinched away before he could realize it was red instead of orange.

But there was no magic. There was nothing to help him. There was only him, an old man with a limp and a cane, wrinkles around his eyes and gray in his hair, staring back at him from a soulless mirror. There was only a man, who wasn't really a man, who was all alone. Powerless and vulnerable and unredeemable. Unlovable. Unworthy.

When he backed up into a corner, felt the tiles behind his back, he could remember all too clearly the years of being looked down on, being pitied and scorned, beleaguered until his only choice was which corner to hide in. Lowly and scared and desperate. Abandoned and desolate. He could remember it—but he didn't need to.

He was living it.

_My name is Rumplestiltskin,_ he thought, a mantra to take the place of the two names he'd failed so badly, so repeatedly. _And I am going to find my son._

* * *

The line the plane would travel was short and straight, belying all the long years of dark, deprived effort it had taken to get here in the first place. Forty-two minutes until they landed. Thirty to forty minutes after that, they'd finally get away from the never-ending realm of airplanes and security and baggage claims. And then…and then there wouldn't be any more chances.

One chance. That was all he had.

He'd spent tens of times his natural life working to find his son. He wondered, now, why he hadn't ever stopped to consider what he'd say to his son once he found him. How could he apologize for letting go of him? For holding on tighter to his dagger than Bae's precious hand? How could he make up for who-knew-how-many years of abandonment in an alien world?

Words were his weapon. They were his armor. They were his protection. But now they were useless. They twisted and snarled up in his mind, jumbled all together so that they became nothing more than random syllables cluttering up the spaces of his mind. When he'd had nothing else, when even magic had been beyond him in Storybrooke, he'd still had words. But now, when he needed them most, they abandoned him—suitable punishment, perhaps, for his own abandonment of his son.

He remembered.

Standing in the woods outside his secluded cabin beneath foggy moonlight. Facing a man he'd hoped, thought, wished was his son. Words had come then, not easily, but steadily. Good words, he thought, dependable words. Apologies and pleas for forgiveness and the acknowledgement that he knew how greatly he'd failed and a recognition of the fact that Bae was so much the better man, even at fourteen.

Words to a stranger. Words to an imposter. Words he'd already used up and how could he use words he'd given another—one who'd so easily fooled him—for his own beloved boy? How could he recycle an apology?

Did it even matter?

Bae had so much to be angry for. So much to blame him for. So much to hate him for. He might not even let Rumplestiltskin speak at all. He might close the door in his face, might run, might spit on him and spew forth the same words Hordor and Hook and Milah and countless others had all given him—justifiably. He might not care that his father came for him, across centuries, across worlds, across space and time itself.

Whatever he did, whatever he said…that would be it. No more curses, no more worlds, no more deals—nothing would change what happened in this confrontation, this reunion. Nothing would bring back his son then.

He was the Dark One. The deal-maker. The powerful imp that made royals flinch and tremble in terror, that caused whole realms to shrink back from horror stories told around flickering campfires. But those were the very things Bae had fled from. The very things he'd wanted Rumplestiltskin to give up.

And if Bae accepted him, forgave him, opened up his arms and embraced his father…he'd expect Rumplestiltskin to give them up again. He'd expect him to live here, in this world, without magic, without power, without deals. An anonymous, powerless man among millions of anonymous, powerless men.

He wanted his son to forgive him. Of course he did.

But his hand still throbbed. There was still blood on his knuckles. And without magic, he was nothing. He couldn't heal Belle, couldn't charm her another talisman, couldn't expect True Love's Kiss to _ever_ work—no matter whether she opened herself up to him or not—in this dull, predictable world. He was useless to her. Useless to Storybrooke. Vulnerable to Hook and Cora and all the other countless enemies he'd made. Useless, even, to Charming and his Snow, to the savior and her son beside him.

"It's okay," Emma told him. "We're going to find your son."

Of course they were. He'd never doubted it—never wavered save for one enchanted evening, sitting at a spinning wheel, staring at a young woman who wasn't his caretaker any longer, feeling something sharp and warm and so enduring awaking within him—never questioned that one day he _would_ find his son.

"I know," he said. Because he did. He knew. He was sure of it.

He just wished he knew what he would do _when_ he found him.

Belle would have been able to help him. She would have called him, or he would have called her—he'd even brought the cell-phone he'd purchased just for her, just to hear her should she call him, out of some vain, misguided hope that she might actually want to speak to him sometime in the future—would have called her and spoken to her. He wouldn't have even said anything, nothing more than _Belle_ and maybe _hey_. But she would have known. She would have said his name, a smile evident in her voice, and she would have told him…something. Something that would make it all seem clear. Something that would make this easier, less frightening. Something to make him smile and maybe even laugh.

She would have told him she loved him.

He might have said it back.

But she was gone. And he was alone. And his son still hated him. And he didn't know what he was going to say.

_My name is Rumplestiltskin,_ he thought, but that was useless, because Bae would surely, certainly recognize him now that he looked just like the papa who'd failed him so utterly before. _I've come to find you, son_—but maybe Bae would wish he hadn't bothered.

He was Rumplestiltskin, and he wanted to find his son, but he had nothing.

No words, no thoughts, no love.

Only fear.

* * *

The line wouldn't leave his head, circling around and around, echoing over and over again until he couldn't think, couldn't see, couldn't focus on anything—not even their arrival in Manhattan or Emma guiding him off the plane—nothing but the words drowning out any apologies he tried to compose for his son.

_I want you to find the one person in this universe who might still love you._

It _was _a line, he had no doubts of that, so cunningly, smoothly delivered by the mistress of performing for others, manipulating with quiet smiles and silk-covered power and a quiet air. She wanted him gone, wanted him out of her way while she played her games, and it was laughable that she thought she could outmaneuver him—or it would have been laughable if he weren't so terribly vulnerable right now—and this had simply been the latest in a long line of carefully crafted performances she'd given him.

But it cut so harshly, dug so deep, hurt so badly. Because it was true. It was true, and yet maybe it wasn't.

_Might._ Bae _might_ still love him. Belle _might_ one day remember that she'd once loved him.

It seemed like hope, promised happiness, and yet Rumplestiltskin had dealt in words, twisted them to gleam and cut and entice. Might was a weak word. A word that, if used in one of his deals, he could exploit, could play with, could wriggle around and twirl upside down and do whatever he wanted without delivering a single solitary thing. Might was never enough. Strength that never lasted, never endured, and certainly never prevailed.

Might was crueler than anything else, because it dangled everything he wanted in front of him but promised nothing.

He remembered.

Oh, yes, he remembered. He remembered everything—surely he did; surely he would _know_ if he had forgotten anything—remembered the good and bad, the myriad of deals, the long years without end piling one on top of another, the loneliness. All of it endured, all of it suffered, all of it worthwhile…because of hope. Because of a _might be, maybe_. Because he couldn't give up when there was the slightest, barest sliver of possibility still left to him.

Beans and hats and looking glasses. Slippers and spheres and vortexes. Curses and deals and favors. Apprentices and allies and enemies. Always another chance, another hope, another avenue to explore. Bae was always _just_ around the corner, _just _behind the next gateway, _just_ beyond the next deal. And now…now Belle was _just_ behind Bae, _just_ a few days away, _just _another charm or talisman left to find.

_Just,_ when they were both never _just_ anything, but so much more. Everything.

…_might still love you…_

He'd long since lost count of how many times he'd been called mad, insane, afflicted by his curse to the point where he was no longer in his right mind. He'd never quite believed them, always just sneered and silently wondered if they'd think the same when they realized just how badly he'd outsmarted them in whatever deal they'd just agreed to. But now he wondered.

How long could he keep hoping, keep fighting, keep trying to make amends, to win back those who had once loved him, before he realized that he _was_ crazy for thinking that they could ever do so again? Maybe his insanity was what kept him from realizing that they didn't love him, wouldn't love him. Maybe he'd imagined them up, imagined the smiles and the hands holding his and the light shining from bright eyes.

Maybe they'd _never_ loved him.

Maybe he should have given up centuries ago. Just given into the curse and let his darkness run rampant and purposeless. Forgotten honor and keeping his word and avoiding outright lies and playing side against side. Found a desperate soul to whisper to about cursed daggers and unlimited power and the weak being made strong.

Maybe. But he couldn't. Because he remembered.

He remembered his son. He remembered Belle. He even remembered Rumplestiltskin. He remembered what those meant—integrity and bravery and a man who hadn't crumbled into dust yet because he still had love. He still had that _might be, maybe_. He still had hope.

So maybe he trembled. And maybe he couldn't speak past the sick knot of seaweed matted in the pit of his stomach and the lump in his throat. Maybe he let the savior take the lead in this mixed up, _too big_ world. Maybe he kept knocking his bleeding knuckles against passing surfaces just to feel the pain wake him up and remind him that this was really happening. But he kept going anyway. Kept moving. Kept looking. Kept planning. Kept trying to find the right words for his son.

Kept hoping.

One foot in front of the other, limp and all. One obstacle after another, cowardice or no cowardice. One tiny, stubborn, burning ember of hope, no matter how often he was disappointed. One person at a time—first his son, then Belle.

His name was Rumplestiltskin, and he was going to find his son, because like it or not, he had the greatest curse of all.

He remembered.

* * *

The End

* * *

A/N: So I can't say enough thank yous and I love yous to my beta and friend, Roberre - seriously, I wouldn't write nearly as many stories or post stories with (hopefully) great quality without her help and encouragement. She takes a lot of time out of a busy life to shower my stories with love, which is what an author needs, but she's also not afraid to say when to change something and help me figure out wording or tense or character insight. So if you want to thank her and enjoy a good story, look up her Rumbelle stories - amazing! But also, thanks to everyone who reads my stories, because writing and beta-ing are made fun and fulfilling by the readers! :)


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